Disclaimer: If I owned Charmed, Chris probably would have suffered a great deal more than he had.

Summary: Because 'alone' is something Chris is tired of being.

dwell

Memories are forgiving. They water down with time, jumble together, and can be forgotten. It's not the memories that will make people suffer—it's the facts. You can blot out the bad memories, the lifeless mother who won't answer your calls, the brother whose eyes have turned cold. But you can't blot out the facts. The aloneness and the cold. Your fiancée's firm and gentle touches and her too-sad smiles. The facts: cold, hard, unforgiving. They won't let you forget; they mock you every time you look longingly at that beautiful, red house that you used to call home. You want to go back.

Bit your knuckles when you were young and Mother would always scold you for that, bat your hands away from your teeth and wash them for you, fussy and single-minded. You would bite on them when you were anxious, when you were hoping your father would come to see you, but he never would. Sometimes you would do it until you bled, but when Wyatt—in a manner too much like Mom—saw, he'd heal the bites for you, tell you to stop and promised not to tell Mom "this time" (every time). Sometimes he could manage a smile for you and softly tell you that Dad was busy, probably, and he'd make it next time. When you realize he won't ever come, not for you, you stop hoping. You stop biting your knuckles too.

You're biting your knuckles now. You tried to call him, got all the way to "Le—" but never got to that last syllable. Don't want to wait so eagerly for something that won't happen. Don't want to have to feel that coldness that has nothing to do with the rapidly descending winter. Besides, you know him and you know you. Cold words will escape you before you can think better of it and he won't like your plan, shoot it down. (Or maybe he won't. He's always been different when it comes to her. To him. But he's always been the same for you.) You still hope he'll come. Touch you on the shoulder and say something. But you don't want to call him. So instead you close your eyes. And bite your knuckles.

"You're like Prue," Mother told you once, her eyes kind and a smile on her face. You gave her an uncertain stare and she laughed. "Not just your powers. You're... passionate. Just like her." She made a gesture; brushed a lock of your hair with one finger and smiled. "Just don't get in over your head, okay sweetie? Think first. Don't go like she did."

You were quiet for a long moment and then asked shyly,

"Who's Wyatt like?"

She looked taken aback and stared. She never answered.

You know few things for certain. You know that after Bianca, there is little else. That you want to go home, but it doesn't even exist anymore. Not now. You know you miss Mom. And your brother, even his occasionally cruel taunts. You want it back. Because you can't do this. Not anymore. You can't watch this world exist, you can't smile for Bianca when you want to. You can't wake up to empty spaces and a dead family that won't answer you, no matter how much you call for them. You can't do enough. Not here. Not now.

Wyatt was a good brother when he was younger. You know that. He'd cover for you, he'd comfort you, but even then a look could shine in his eye, something that you didn't want to scare you, but did. A cruel sneer that would twist around his features like something ugly. The first time it ever really meant anything was the first time he fought with an Innocent.

You never found out what for, just that it wasn't fair and you wanted them to stop and when Wyatt wouldn't listen to you, you did the stupidest thing you could think of and shoved the human kid out of the way. Wyatt punched you in the jaw—by accident, you think—and you bit your tongue, swallowed the blood that welled up in your mouth, and thought you saw a look of regret and shock on his face.

The slap of the Innocent's sneakers were loud against the pavement as he ran away.

Wyatt opened his mouth, and you think it was to apologize, but you never found out for sure because you were already orbing away. Like a coward.

You go home. More than just 'home'. Back. Away. And maybe that makes you a coward; not able to deal with the life you're supposed to have so you go run away to a life you never had. But you don't care. You see them again, and they're so young, the situation so surreal, that it's like one of the old photographs have come to life. And they don't know you. They look at you and see a stranger. And that's okay. You don't care that they don't like you, don't trust you. Because you have them again. It's okay.

It's okay.

End dwell